


The Fundementals of Potion-Making (and my fucked-up life)

by Cjblack



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Decent Slytherins, Depression, Harry's Self-Disructive Tendencies, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Insomnia, Interhouse Unity, M/M, PTSD, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Potions Tutoring, References to Addiction, Romance, Slow Burn, Slytherins Being Slytherins, gryffindors being gryffindors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-18 23:23:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8179697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cjblack/pseuds/Cjblack
Summary: Harry Potter had no desire to return to Hogwarts. Suffering from PTSD, he's barely functioning after the final battle as it is...and no matter who tries to reach out to him, Harry can't shake the feeling of guilt and hopelessness left behind by the ugliness of war.Draco Malfoy had no desire to return to Hogwarts. He knows he's lucky to have avoided Azkaban but his year-long probation requires him to keep his nose clean. He sets out to avoid Potter at all costs, knowing conflict between them could leave him within the concrete walls of a prison cell. Nevertheless, as fate would have it, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy can't ever seem to escape each other for long. One night, a despondent Harry stumbles across Draco drinking alone in the Astronomy tower and the two forge an unlikely truce, an unusual friendship, and, an inevitable romance.





	1. Guilt

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I couldn't wait even a week after completing one story before starting another. This story is your typical, eighth-year Drarry story, and probably a bit clichéd as well, but I love these stories so I'm adding to the pile. ;) However, it seems to be that I enjoy writing a fucked-up Harry who's struggling to find himself way too much to stop now, so it'll be a bit angsty at times. I like happy endings, though, so no worries there. xx

* * *

 

“This is absolutely _preposterous_!”

Draco refrained from rolling his eyes as Pansy threw herself into the seat across from him in their carriage, huffing dramatically. She folded her arms across her chest and tossed her short black hair over her shoulder as she met Draco’s gaze expectantly.

“ _We know_ , Pansy,” he drawled out, trying _and_ failing to withhold the note of annoyance in his voice. Blaise climbed up and plopped down beside Draco, looking bored.

“She’s right, though. We all were here for our seventh year…just because we didn’t have the opportunity to finish it doesn’t mean we didn’t learn the majority of the curriculum.”

“With the Carrows teaching the Dark Arts but nothing else of substance?” Draco quipped, his eyebrow arching inquisitively.

“He’s got you there, Blaise. Honestly, any curriculum that _Crabbe_ and _Goyle_ excelled at is obviously seriously lacking—budge over, you two,” Theo old them, stepping up the foothold and, without waiting for Blaise to make room, he bodily shoved the dark-skinned Slytherin over and into Draco, who swore under his breath as the air was knocked out of his lungs.

“What the _fuck,_ Theo,” Blaise exclaimed loudly, shooting the other boy a contemptuous look while he attempted to adjust his robes twisted around him with difficulty now that he was sandwiched snugly between the two other young men.

“What? Do I have Dragon Pox, or something, Nott?” Pansy asked him with an offended scowl. The carriage jerked suddenly as Goyle hoisted his vast weight onto the carriage with effort. Blaise grimaced as Gregory trotted on his toes and took his seat next to the girl, jostling them around some more when he sat down heavily.

 “Have a nice summer, Goyle?” Blaise asked casually. Goyle grunted derisively.

“Dad’s in prison. Mum’s been in a foul state since. So, no,” he mumbled simply.

“I hear you,” Theo said, covering a yawn with the palm of his hand. “Better that way for me, though.” The brown-haired teen said conversationally. They all nodded in agreement. It wasn’t common knowledge that Mr. Nott was a raging alcoholic who enjoyed getting smashed and beating on his wife and two sons but amongst his closest peers, Theo hadn’t been able to hide all the bruises over the years.

Goyle grunted again, and his dark, dull eyes swiveled to Draco accusingly. “Not that Malfoy would know what it’s like, though,” he said. “His daddy just got half a year of wand suspension and bloody _house arrest._ Bullshit.”

Draco stiffened slightly but kept his face impassive as everyone around them exchanged hesitant looks.

“That was the Wizengamot’s decision, Goyle,” Draco informed him coldly. The larger teenager’s crooked teeth bared in a sneer.

“Yeah, ‘cause Saint Potter testified for you and your mum and swayed things in your family’s favor. Not everyone was so lucky to have the fuckin’ _Chosen One_ on their side,” he growled. The carriages all chose that moment to lurch into motion now that they were all filled around them.

Draco said nothing; trying to reason with the brute was a waste of time. Goyle’s father was sentenced to fifty years in Azkaban and, given his age, would likely die there. Mrs. Goyle, a simple-minded woman, was clearly unable to handle the loss of her equally dense husband. Not to mention, Goyle’s best friend died in a smoking pit of Fiendfyre a few months ago.

In all honesty, Draco couldn’t blame Goyle for his bitterness. He and his family had gotten of pretty lightly, considering. Not that Draco would _ever_ dispute the outcome of their trials, but he couldn’t deny the astonishment he’d felt when Potter showed up in that courtroom, looking exhausted and scrawnier than usual, like he hadn’t slept a blink since the final battle at Hogwarts; nevertheless, he gave his testimonial to the courtroom, unblinking as he gazed up at the Wizengamot with his stupid green eyes shining behind his even stupider glasses.

He and his mother both got a year’s probation. Their wands were being monitored at all times by the Ministry for the use of any dark spells, but as long as they behaved like upstanding citizens, neither of them would see the inside of a prison cell. After his father’s temporary wand-suspension and house arrest were served, Lucius would face an additional five-year probationary period. But, for the most part, he could still continue to live comfortably even whilst being under the Ministry’s scrutiny for a half-decade.

A mere slap on the wrist in comparison to most.

He eyed the threstrals pulling them onward discreetly, wishing with some despondence that they were still invisible to him.

They spent the last leg of their journey to Hogwarts mostly in silence, and it wasn’t until they stepped out of their transport that Draco finally spotted Potter.

The Chosen One was with the Weasel and the Mudblood as usual, but there seemed to be discontent amongst the _Golden Trio._ From where Draco was standing, Potter looked stiff and frustrated as Granger tugged him along by the arm like an imprudent child. He dug his heels into the ground to stop her as he snapped something at her impatiently and the girl released him looking abashed. Weasley was frowning at him and opened his mouth to say something but Potter just shook his messy head of hair and followed the crowd towards the entrance of the castle, pointedly avoiding the many, _many_ eyes trying to get a good look at the Savior.

Granger and Weasley exchanged a worried look behind him and joined hands, trailing after Potter.

“Looks like there’s trouble in paradise,” Pansy observed, coming up to stand next to Draco. Draco sniffed disdainfully and looked away from Potter’s retreating form, shrugging his shoulders in indifference.

“Who cares?” he said dryly.

“From the way you’re ogling at Potter, I’d say _you_ do, Draco,” Blaise stated blandly, arriving on his other side with Theo not far behind.

“Fuck off, Blaise,” Draco retorted, “…I just want to know why,” he added quietly. “I want to know why the Hell he testified.”

“It’s Potter, Draco,” Pansy said as they walked together. She smoothed out an invisible wrinkle in her blouse primly. “He probably can’t get to sleep at night without knowing for sure if he’ll make the front page in the morning doing some good deed.” Draco, Blaise, and Theo all snickered at that, but Draco couldn’t help the strange feeling in his gut that told him something was definitely up with the Boy-Who-Lived.

Potter was hardly his problem, though. Draco had his own probation to concern himself with, to make sure he stayed within the parameters of his sentencing. That meant no picking fights with Boy-Wonder or his lame sidekicks. Hogwarts was a massive school, with hundreds of students within its walls…surely he could avoid interacting with one meagre Gryffindor without an issue.

**…**

“…And through those doors you’ll find your respective dormitories. Again, I’d like to point out that you’ll not be separated by house, only by gender. Therefore, it is important you heed my warning: any violent behavior will not be tolerated at Hogwarts. You are _all_ legal adults now. If you have a problem, sort it out diplomatically. Any dueling with intent to cause harm will result in your immediate removal from this school.” McGonagall informed them in her usual strict demeanor.

They were standing in a remodeled wing, clearly modified from the old unused classrooms on the second floor to create the Eighth-Year dorms. Since Hogwarts had never before had more than its seven years’ worth of students, the individual houses were not built to accommodate them. Hence, the new living arrangements.

“Lumped together with the snakes…joy,” Dean muttered lowly to Seamus, who sniggered under his breath. McGonagall heard him though and looked at him critically.

“That type of attitude, Mr. Thomas, is precisely what I’m advising you to adjust. Immediately.” She turned back to face the rest of the crowd as Dean shifted his weight uneasily, shrinking a little after being reprimanded by the Headmistress. “The staff has worked diligently over the summer and have _admirably_ agreed to each take on another class this year, to allow you all a chance at graduation and your NEWTs. That is why you’re all here.

"I understand it may seem unfair having to return for an extra year of studies. I recognize this may seem like an inconvenient setback on your way to your prospective careers. I do sympathize with you. Unfortunately though, most career paths require the completion of every year of education and a certain amount of NEWTs. Therefore, I encourage you all to study hard so you can finally move on with your lives after this year.”

McGonagall finished her speech in a no-nonsense tone and Harry fleetingly found himself missing Dumbledore’s cheery start-of-term addresses that rarely made sense but always left him feeling optimistic at the start of a new year. This year, however, Harry couldn’t find an ounce of optimism within himself. He didn’t even want to come back to finish his final year of schooling but Hermione insisted and pestered him until he gave in.

Logically, she was right of course. He needed his NEWTs in order to find a career worth while. He understood that. He just…he didn’t want to be here. It was like reopening barely-healed wounds and he loathed being back here so soon.

Too soon.

Truthfully, he didn’t know _where_ he wanted to be anymore.

No place felt like home these days.

Not Hogwarts.

Not Grimmauld Place.

Not The Burrow.

He didn’t feel like he belonged anywhere, really.

He swallowed thickly around the snitch-sized lump of frustration his throat and was only brought out of his thoughts when Ron poked him in the arm.

“Come on mate, there’s only two dorms for the blokes. We want to make sure we can stay all together,” Ron told him, his head jerking in the direction of Dean, Seamus, and Neville. Harry blinked twice and nodded, following the gangly red-head up the stairs leading to the boys’ dorms.

 _“Bugger!”_ Seamus groaned as they reached the top of the stairs; both doors were open, but the room on the right hand side was already occupied by a swarm of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs which meant all that was left was—

“We’re stuck with the Slytherins,” bemoaned Ron, slinking through the door on the right behind Dean.

“Oh _, fuck Merlin_ ,” Zabini lamented as the Gryffindors dragged their feet into their new room. “We’ve got the Gryffs, boys,” he called over his shoulder. Malfoy, Nott, and Goyle all looked up from their trunks they’d unshrunk and placed in front of their selected beds.

“Screw you, Zabini,” Ron told him with a scowl. Harry grimaced, the tension in the air was palpable as the Gryffindors all threw their stuff onto the remaining beds miserably. Harry’s stomach sank into his knees; as if this year wasn’t going to be taxing enough…

 _Stop pitying yourself, you dolt. You’re a Gryffindor. Act like one,_ he told himself firmly. He took the last bed, situated between Zabini and Ron, and magicked his trunk to its full-size at the foot of it.

“What time you got, Seamus?” Ron called over, pulling his robes on over his uniform.

“Sorting’s in twenty minutes,” Seamus responded, glancing at his watch as he yanked his trainers off and put on his uniform shoes.

“’Kay thanks. Mate, aren’t you going to change?”

Harry was rummaging through his trunk when he felt it at the bottom—straightening up he held the hollowed snitch in his hand, opened but empty of the stone once nestled within it. He held the tiny sphere in the palm of his hand, staring blankly at it and remembering once more what it felt like to hold up to his lips, preparing to die.

_I open at the close._

He felt his arms prickle with goosebumps, his hair standing up on end as he recalled that flash of light—

“Harry?”

He jumped, his fingers closing quickly over the snitch in his hand and his eyes raised to meet Ron’s concerned expression. A look that was becoming way too familiar these days. He flashed Ron a quick, reassuring smile, strained though it was.

“Sorry, Ron. What’s up?”

Ron was standing in front of him now fully dressed in his proper attire and his brow furrowed at Harry's closed fist.

“You've got to get your robes on, mate. McGonagall expects us to be down in the Great Hall right on time to see the sorting. Probably shouldn’t set her off just yet, yeah?” he stated, scratching the tip of his freckled nose and appearing thoughtful for a moment.

“Maybe Potter just wants to make a grand entrance,” came a gruff voice across the room. Ron spun around to glare at Goyle.

“Oh, piss off, Goyle!”

“ _You_ piss off, blood-traitor,” Goyle growled back, his small eyes glowering spitefully.

“It’s not worth it, Ron,” Harry said quietly, as he slid into his robes. Gosh, he was tired. He was always so tired…

Ron grimaced but removed the hand on the wand in his pocket.

Goyle however, wasn’t done with his taunting. “Just like Crabbe wasn’t worth it, huh? Not worth saving?” he spat viciously and Harry couldn’t hold back the wince that made him look like someone had physically slapped him.

He remained quiet, the chronic feeling of guilt crept back into his chest and took hold once more, reminding Harry that it would never truly go away. He opened his fingers and let the snitch roll off his palm and tumble back into the trunk with the rest of his belongings.

No…the guilt would never leave him.

Only people did, when Harry wasn’t strong enough to save them.

 

* * *

 


	2. Obsessed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter 2, several days early...so far my chapters have been pretty short but hey, that just means more frequent updates for you. They'll probably get longer with time, though. Poor Harry is just in a slump. He just can't bring himself to care about much of anything. This chapter is just establishing his state of mind and his struggling with his depression, I guess. My brain plays no part in writing this story; my fingers just kind of dance along the keyboard and y'all get stuck with the results. Sorry xD

* * *

Harry turned over onto his left side, adjusted the pillow under his head and pulled the covers beneath his chin. This room was much colder than Gryffindor tower ever was, but the Slytherins, who’d been so accustomed to sleeping in the dungeons preferred their sleeping arrangements borderline _freezing_.

An argument on the bloody temperature ensued hours before as they all situated themselves for bed because it appeared that all Gryffindors and Slytherins were pre-programmed from birth to disagree with one another in every and all things.

Eventually, the Slytherins had won the battle, because it was either Gryffindors dressed warmly and piled on some blankets or deal with their rival house’s boys sleeping stalkers.

Truly, sleeping in the chilled air was the lesser of two evils.

Harry rolled over onto his right for a minute, and closed his eyes again, trying to get comfortable once more.

Then, after several intolerable minutes, he flopped heavily onto his back and let out a groan as he dug the heels of his hands into his burning eyes in frustration. He was just so tired, and yet sleep continued to evade him.

Truthfully, he was afraid to sleep. Afraid of the nightmares that would ensue if he allowed himself to close his eyes. He was becoming an insomniac.

The minutes ticked by, one-by-one, until Harry finally relented; he sat up and crawled over to the edge of his bed, carefully pulling the red drapes surrounding his bed open and slid out, the stone floor cool beneath his bare feet. He crouched before is trunk and, after sending a cautious glance towards Ron’s bed he raised the lid in search of some sweet relief.

His hands went straight to the bottom right side and there, concealed beneath his invisibility cloak were a dozen thumb-sized glass vials filled with a navy-colored potion. He grabbed one quickly and popped out the stopper, downing it in one gulp like it was he was Nicholas Flamel drinking the elixir of life.

He placed the vial back in the pile, wincing as it clinked against the others, but thankfully the light snoring around the room (and whatever noise Goyle was emitting that sounded like a dying hippogriff), overpowered it. Harry eased the lid of his trunk down and slipped back onto his bed.

He reclined back into his pillow, shifting onto his left side again and reached to pull his curtains closed. He halted, though, when his eyes met a deep brown pair staring at him from the bed next to his. Zabini regarded him curiously before he raised an eyebrow and smirked at Harry. Then the other boy proceeded to roll over in his own green blankets, offering nothing more.

Harry bit back another groan and silently began pleading to every and any deity that might be willing to listen, that Blaise Zabini would have enough sense to keep his mouth shut.

**…**

“So guess who I saw last night?” Blaise said casually, slipping onto the bench next to Draco at their table the next morning. Draco barely glanced at the other male as he sipped his pumpkin juice boredly.

“Not even one day in and you’re already sticking it to some poor naïve girl, Blaise?” Draco drawled. Blaise grinned at him mockingly.

“No, you arse— _Potter_.”

Draco’s head whipped over so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash.

“You fucked _Potter_?” he whispered incredulously and Blaise actually snorted as he helped himself to a plate of eggs and toast. Draco felt slightly dizzy as he glared at Zabini.

“What? No—why would I fuck Potter? No, he was out of bed, sneaking around or some shit at four in the bloody morning. He downed some potion and passed out.”

Draco sneered at his friend coldly. “Why would I care about that?”

Blaise smirked sardonically.

“You seemed to care a great deal when you thought I had a go at the Boy-Who-Lived’s _arse,”_ he acknowledged with a shrug. “I figured this bit of information would give you something new to obsess over.”

Draco glowered at the darker boy and jabbed at him with his fork irritably. “I do _not_ obsess over Po—”

“What are you two on about?” Pansy interrupted, dropping down across from Blaise and Draco. Draco shot Blaise a warning look before turning to the girl, more than eager to change the subject to anything but Harry fucking—

“—Potter,” Blaise said simply. “More specifically, Draco here is in denial that he isn’t completely obsessed with Mr. Hero over there.” Blaise jabbed a thumb over his shoulder towards the general direction of the Gryffindor table. Pansy smiled knowingly.

“Oh sweetheart, denial looks _terrible_ on you,” she said. Draco snarled at her.

The _Harpy_.

“Who’s in denial?” questioned Theo, scooting into the seat by Pansy without missing a beat. Draco wanted to hex someone, and probably would have if it wouldn’t violate his probation.

“Draco is in denial that he's obsess--" Blaise broke off with a grunt. “Ouch, damn you _and_ your pointy shoe’s, Malfoy!” He reached down to rub his shin, a bit more subdued now. Across from him, Theo was filling his own plate with food as he nodded his head in acknowledgement.

“Let me guess: Potter?”

Draco bristled, “I am _not_ obsessed—”

“—With Potter. Yes, yes, keep telling yourself that, dear,” Pansy cooed, tucking into her own breakfast, not at all put off by the malevolent glare the blonde boy was shooting her way.

“Why the fuck am I friends with you lot?” Draco grumbled lowly, resting his chin in his left hand and stabbing at a sausage link moodily with his other.

“Because,” Blaise said nonchalantly as he raised his goblet, “no one else would take you. Besides, us snakes have got to stick together. We’re all officially _public-enemy-number-one_ at this school.” Draco inclined his head in agreement, setting down his fork in order to raise his own goblet and clanked it against Blaise’s in cheers.

**…**

“If you would turn to page twenty-nine in your text, please, you will find the instructions for the Muffling Draught. You have ninety minutes,” Slughorn informed the class, adjusting the waistband of his trousers over his hefty gut. “You may begin.” He sat down behind his desk and began to shuffle through papers.

“Is that it?” Neville whispered horrified in the seat next to Harry. Harry grimaced and nodded his head, eyeing their lackluster Potions Professor who apparently didn't feel up to teaching much today.

“Guess so,” he muttered in reply. He hopped off his stool and followed the hoard of students to the cupboards at the back of the classroom to get the appropriate ingredients. After several minutes of being shoved and jostled around, Harry managed to get what he needed and dragged himself back to his spot.

He set up his cauldron over the burner and lit the fire with his wand.

“No Harry, you’re not supposed to apply heat until after you’ve added fairy wing and valerian root!” Hermione hissed, turning around on her stool to stare at him disapprovingly. “It says it right there, at the top. You need to pay attention…” she said, sighing. Harry rolled his eyes and extinguished the flame with another wave of his wand.

“There. Thanks Hermione,” Harry told her evenly. Her frowned deepened.

“You’ll have to get a new cauldron, it’s already too hot now—”

“Hermione,” Harry said, unable to keep the agitation out of his voice, “It isn’t going to _matter_. Leave it alone. _Please_.”

He loved Hermione. He really did…but sometimes she got on his bloody nerves with all her nagging. He tried to ignore the hurt look on her face as she did as he asked. He tried to ignore the reproving look Ron gave him for snapping at his girlfriend.

He feigned indifference instead, and continued to work on his potion in silence.

**…**

“Hm, I’m afraid this is not quite right, Harry,” Slughorn told him disappointedly. Harry pursed his lips and nodded, staring down at the ghastly looking green hue of his potion instead of the pale yellow it should’ve been. Slughorn took the ladle and scooped some out, grimacing as he let it pour back into Harry’s cauldron. It was too thick as well, looking disturbingly like mucous. Slughorn gave him an encouraging smile.

“Next time I’m sure you’ll get it, yes?”

Harry returned the smile half-heartedly. Slughorn was still convinced he had his mother’s knack for potion-making, it seemed. Harry didn’t have the heart to tell him that his success in sixth year had nothing to do with talent and everything to do with cheating with the Half-Blood Prince’s notes…Snape’s notes.

His stomach clenched uneasily at the thought of Snape as Slughorn walked away to evaluate the remainder of his students’ concoctions. Harry wasn’t the only one who failed miserably at the potion. Justin Finch-Fletchly managed to make his cauldron expload halfway through class, and Neville’s was a vibrant magenta color (but his consistency was spot-on at least). In fact, the only two people who managed to produce a perfect Muffling Draught was Hermione and Malfoy.

Typical.

Harry shoveled his books into satchel and slung it out of his shoulder, feeling deeply troubled as he his thoughts fixated on Snape, unable to get those lifeless eyes out of his mind's eye.

“Oye, watch it!”

Harry bounced off a solid body and stumbled back into the corner of the nearest workbench, catching himself with his right hand but not before the corner dug into his side hard enough to bruise.

“Ow! Sorry—”

Rubbing his side with a wince Harry turned to look at Malfoy, who was staring at him with an inscrutable expression on his pale face. After a moment’s hesitation Malfoy just raised an eyebrow and turned away, resuming his conversation with Nott.

Since when did Malfoy ever _ignore_ him? He was missing a perfectly good opportunity to insult Harry.

Harry’s eyes narrowed as they followed the Slytherin out of the classroom until he was out of sight.

“You coming, Harry?” Neville asked him, lingering behind to wait for Harry.

“Yeah—sorry. Where’d Ron and Hermione get to?”

“Probably got a head start to Transfiguration,” Neville assumed, his hands shoved in his robes as they walked together. “You all right, mate?” he asked carefully.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Nev,” Harry said with a quick smile. “Just tired...”

**…**

Harry laid on his bed, the curtains open as he stared at the ceiling. He turned his head to glance at the large clock on the wall and noted with some disappointment that everyone would be returning from the Great Hall any time now.

After their first potions class, most of his day went similarly. He couldn’t focus enough to produce good results in Transfiguration, and, after he picked at his lunch, Charms wasn’t any better. By the time Harry left History of Magic, Hermione looked like she wanted to reprimand him so badly and was barely refraining, so he went left while they went right; slipping away discreetly into his bed, hoping to get a minute of peace.

“Hey, have you been here the whole time?” Seamus asked, trouncing into the room and shirking off his robe. He threw it haphazardly in the direction of his bed and leaned against one of the posts at the foot of Harry’s. “You okay? Ron and Hermione were looking for you at dinner.”

Harry rubbed a hand down his face tiredly. “Yeah, I’m fine Seamus. Just wasn’t hungry.” Seamus scratched the back of his head thoughtfully.

“Dean, Neville, and I are heading to the library to do that assignment for Flitwick and the reading for History. You’re welcome to join, mate,” the Irishman offered cheerfully. Harry flashed him a grin.

“Thanks, Seamus. I’ve—I’ve already it finished though.” He gestured to his school bag on the floor and Seamus gave him a quick salute before making his exit, whistling off-key as he left.

Harry rolled onto his stomach and buried his face into his pillow.

“—eengrass? Which one?” Harry’s ears twitched at the sound of multiple footsteps coming into the room.

“Daphne,” Zabini said, sounding slightly annoyed.

“…and you are jealous she’s blowing someone else these days?” came a familiar drawl.

A scoff.

“Jealous? Merlin, no, who _hasn’t_ gotten head from Daphne? I’m surprised her jaw hasn’t unhinged yet.”

Harry felt his face heat up in an embarrassed astonish. Was it _normal_ for the Slytherins to discuss their sex lives so openly? More importantly, couldn't they see him laying on his bed? 

Malfoy let out a chuckle that was so foreign, Harry almost forgot to pretend to be sleeping and nearly looked up to see if it had been real. They must have been changing from the rustling sounds of clothing.

“So Theo and Daphne, then? Are they serious or are they just fucking?”

“I’m not sure…I didn’t want to interrupt them mid-screw to ask for details. From what Theo said earlier though, they had been staying in contact all summer. Who knows? Maybe he wants to snatch up a pretty pureblood girl to marry, before all that’s left in the pot is Milly,” Zabini said wryly.

“Hmm, and what about you? Any poor, unsuspecting girl catch your eye? Or unsuspecting boy, this time?” Malfoy asked in his usual smooth tone.

Boys, too? Harry certainly didn’t expect that particular detail.

“No, you know me. I prefer the bachelor life. And you, Draco? Find a perky little arse up to _your_ standards yet…?” Zabini started suggestively.

“…”

“Don’t even fucking start, Blaise,” Draco hissed furiously. “I do _not_ —”

“Harry?”

The Slytherins voices hushed instantly as Ron’s voice wafted into the dormitory. Harry didn’t move.

“Mate? You okay?” Ron asked, his presence closing in on Harry’s bed.

“He’s _sleeping_ Weasley, clearly,” Malfoy interjected crossly.

Ron ignored him completely.

 _“Harry?”_ he pressed and Harry wanted to scream into his pillow. He sighed and lifted his head to face his ginger-haired best friend.

“I’m trying to sleep, Ron,” Harry told him quietly. Ron crouched down beside his bed to meet his eyes. The space between his brows was pinched in concern.

“You weren’t at dinner, and you’ve barely eaten breakfast and lunch today. Hermione’s going to have a right fit if you don’t start eating more.”

“I’m _fine_ , Ron. I just want to sleep, all right? I didn’t sleep well last night.” Ron bit his lip and nodded, clapping Harry a little too hard on the shoulder before standing back up, his knees popping as he went.

“Yeah, okay, Harry. Fine…I’ll see you later.”

Harry nodded and watched as he left, looking doubtful.

“He wipe your arse and burp you too, Potter?” Zabini quipped mockingly and Malfoy snickered beside him as they too, swept out of them room.

Silence.

Harry rolled over and out of his bed. He opened his trunk and grabbed another vial.

And then, a second one.

He drank them both.

Slumping back onto his bed Harry smiled, finally drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I have a kink for Slytherins talking shamelessly about their sex lives...cough.
> 
> Until next time... AKA, Wednesday ;)


	3. Fishbowl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow...I'm so not used to 'Slow Burn' stories...I just want them to get together, already! But we'll get there. No Drarry interaction, yet, I'm afraid. I'm trying to spend some time focusing on Harry's mental state right now, so Draco can swoop in and make things not suck as much.
> 
> Sorry for the longish wait! Next chapter I will try to get out sooner, for you lovely readers. :)

* * *

_“Overall, how would you describe your mood, today, Harry?” Harry shifted on the couch, bringing one knee up and hugged it against his chest, resting his chin on top of it. He pondered the question for a moment and then shrugged._

_“I don’t know. Okay, I guess,” he answered eventually. Healer Crawford tilted her head to the side and regarded him silently for a moment, in a way that never failed to unnerve Harry. He hated being under her scrutiny…it made him feel vulnerable. She always seemed to be reading him one way or another, if she wasn't deciphering his words, she was evaluating his body language or counting how many times he blinked or inhaled or Merlin knows what._

_In here, Harry was under her telescope, being picked apart atom by atom to see what made him operate and why...he hated it all so much._

_He hated the endless questions the most...they were too personal and it was too aggravating to be forced into talking when he really didn't want to._

_Yet, it was the only way he could get a prescription for the_ Dreamless Sleep. _So he came every Thursday afternoon and he answered the mind-healer's questions and counted down the minutes until he could make his escape on the clock on the wall behind her._

_“And how would you define ‘okay’?” she prompted. Crawford was in her early-forties, slender and of average height, and rather plain-looking. She wore thin-wired, rectangular reading glasses that slid down her nose every time she made a note on the clipboard perched on her crossed legs._

_Harry withheld an exasperated sigh. “Er—I mean, I’m not…the_ Dreamless Sleep _has been helping me at night, so I guess I don’t feel so tired right now. I still don’t feel quite like myself either, though…” he trailed off._

_Crawford nodded._

_“Do you remember what I told you when I prescribed the_ Dreamless Sleep _, Harry?” she began seriously. “How it has addictive properties and should only be taken as a last resort if you’re experiencing nightmares? It should never be taken before bed on a regular basis. It’s a—”_

_“—drug, not a sleep-aide. Yes, I know ma’am,” Harry interrupted crisply. She eyed him carefully._

_“Do you get angry, easily, Harry?”_

_“I—I guess it depends on the situation.”_

_“What kind of things make you angriest?”_

_“…unjust things, mostly.”_

_“For example?”_

_Harry grimaced. “Like…like outdated prejudices…bad things happening to good people. People hurting other people intentionally…”_

_“All of those are very normal things to feel angered by, Harry. How does your anger typically show itself?”_

_“What do you mean?” Healer Crawford readjusted her legs to cross facing the opposite direction and leaned back into her chair calmly._

_“Do you shout? Throw things? Cry?” she elaborated._

_…For a split second Harry saw himself back in Dumbledore’s office, screaming at him, destroying the objects on his desk._

_…He was at the Grimmauld Place, yelling at Ron and Hermione for keeping him in the dark all summer._

_…He was smashing the two-way mirror because it wasn’t showing him Sirius._

_…He was casting a curse on Malfoy without knowing what it did._

_…he was attempting to cast it on Snape, knowing full-well what it did…_

_“I guess I tend to shout and break things, sometimes…” he admitted self-consciously. She scratched something down on her pad of parchment with her beige quill. Great, she was going to diagnose him with anger-management issues on top of his ‘depression’ and ‘PTSD’…he might as well check himself in the psych-ward at Mungos’…_

_“What have people close to you told you about your moods lately?”_

_Harry bit his lip, “Ron told me I’ve been a drag to be around. He’s still mourning his brother’s death, y’know, and I’m just…I know I’m supposed to be there for him but it’s hard to—Hermione’s always looking at me like I’m about to break or something. She keeps asking if I want to talk about things and says I’m too withdrawn. I haven’t talked to anyone else, much, to be honest.”_

_“What about the girlfriend you mentioned during our first session? Ginny?”_

_“We broke up about a month ago.”_

_The healer straightened up a bit. “I’m sorry to hear that. A month ago? How come you have never mentioned it before today?”_

_“Was I supposed to?” Harry asked cagily. She frowned slightly._

_“Break-ups can often times be difficult to cope with,” she said._

_“Well…I don’t know, we never really got back together in the first place after our initial break up. I think she just figured after the wa--_ after _, that we'd go back to the way we were before. I don’t know. It just…it wasn’t going to work out. It didn’t feel like a big deal to mention.”_

_“May I ask why not?” Harry picked at the fabric of his trouser-covered kneecap._

_“I’m guess…I’m not interested in her like_ that _, anymore. I mean, she’s a great friend, but-but she wants things I can’t give her right now. She’s got her whole life figured out, it seems. She wants to go pro in quidditch after she leaves from Hogwarts. She wants to get married and have a big family.”_

_“And you don’t want those things?”_

_“I-I don’t know what I want. I used to want to be an auror. I mean…I used to want kids, too.”_

_“No longer?” Harry shrugged haphazardly._

_“I’m kind of sick of fighting dark wizards,” he said after a brief pause, “…and I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be a good father.”_

_“Well, you’re very young yet, Harry. There’s plenty of time for you to decide what it is you want out of your life,” Crawford told him kindly._

_But who was she,_ Harry thought bitterly _, to claim he had plenty of time? His mum, his dad, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Fred, Colin…surely they had thought that they had ‘plenty of time’, too._

**…**

Draco sighed as he folded the letter from his mother and shoved it into his pocket. It had been just as bland as last week’s letter, simple and aloof. He knew it wasn’t anything to take personally; the Ministry was monitoring all correspondence in and out of the manor. It was pointless, really, considering the likelihood of the few remaining Death Eaters still at large trying to contact him or his family for help was nonexistent at this point.

Nevertheless, it was another stipulation of probation. Draco scowled to himself and took another swig of his firewhiskey. Two weeks in and Draco already wanted to leave Hogwarts. If he didn’t need his NEWTs he wouldn’t have come back for an eighth year of schooling.

If his parents hadn’t insisted _incessantly_ for the last few months, he still probably wouldn’t have _. It was easy for them to say,_ Draco thought moodily…they weren’t the ones having to deal with the continuous looks of distrust and judgement every minute of every day. Father was confined to the manor, and mother chose to stay there with him, for the most part. Even still, had she decided to leave for a while, she didn’t have this blasted mark defining her for the rest of her life.

Sitting in the solitude of the empty astronomy tower wasn’t probably an ideal place for him to be. He closed his eyes and tried not to remember Dumbledore’s lifeless face as he fell like a ragdoll from here, mere paces away to his right. He tried not to recall his terror, the rush of anxiety and fear that had overpowered his ability to act, to complete his task…

Draco grimaced and tossed back the remaining amber liquid in the bottle before capping it and shoving it back into his bag. Rising to his feet, the Malfoy heir walked over to the window and peered into the autumn night. Though the days were still relatively warm, the September night air was crisp, and the trees of the Forbidden Forest were only just starting to shed their leaves onto the grounds. He breathed in deeply, warmed by the alcohol coursing through his body, and while he hadn’t consumed enough to be drunk, it was plenty enough to leave him with a pleasant hum in his veins.

He pulled away from the window and shouldered his bag, thinking briefly how he’d have to wait for the next trip to Hogsmeade to purchase more liquor. Then again, Blaise, Theo, and Pansy were all known to stash some in the bottom of their trunks for a good time...

Although these days, Draco preferred to savor a drink alone. Blaise was a pain-in-the-arse when he had one too many, coquettish and even more of a gossip. Pansy was the same, but her screeching seemed to increase ten-fold. Theo was more tolerable, usually brooding or quiet, much like Draco was…which would probably just leave them in dull company between the two of them.

No, sometimes being alone with his thoughts was all he needed to recollect himself. He slipped from the tower in quiet, deliberate steps—getting caught after curfew would hardly look good on his tarnished record.

**…**

“Argh! It looks like Christmas in here! How ghastly...”

“Bloody hell, Parkinson!” Dean yelped, stumbling behind his bed in an effort to conceal his half-dressed state. Neville, Seamus, Ron, and Harry reacted similarly. Really, didn’t the girl have the decency to knock?

“Oh relax, boys, I’m entirely unimpressed by each and every one of you,” she stated flippantly, traipsing through the door between Harry and Zabini’s beds. She settled on Malfoy’s pristinely made one and sprawled herself across it, leaning against the headboard and examining her nails uninterestedly.

The Gryffindor boys exchanged horrified looks, and began slipping back into their pajamas they’d been previously shedding during their wait for the adjoining showers to free up.

The door finally opened after several tense minutes, and Nott slipped out, followed by Zabini and Malfoy, dressed in their uniform shirts and slacks and perfectly groomed like proper little Pureblood snobs.

“Get out of my bed, you nosey bint,” Malfoy told her shortly, but he barely even glanced at her as he grabbed robes off the bed and proceeded to don them.

The girl pouted at him but didn’t move so much as an inch.

“Oye! You want to get her out of here?” Ron interjected, his pale, freckled skin flushed in discomfort. “This is the _boy’s_ dormitory!”

Malfoy turned on him and sneered, “Weren't you going to go shower anyway, Weasley? You should really take advantage of those showers; I imagine bathing must be a luxury in your household,” he said icily. “Besides, she is _hardly_ hurting anyone by being in here, but if she tries to sneak a peek at your inadequacies, I _promise_ I’ll kick her out.”

Ron snarled furiously, his hand snatching up the wand on his nightstand to aim it towards Malfoy. The blonde boy however, made no move to draw his wand, and Harry watched with increasing curiosity as Zabini and Nott both slid in front to defend him with their own wands, compelling Neville, Seamus, and Dean to jet over to Ron’s side and do the same.

Harry remained seated on his bed, observing the exchange. After McGonagall’s stern warning against dueling, did his friends really think it wise to let the Slytherins get to them? Malfoy was definitely a prick, that was nothing new, but he certainly wasn’t worth being _expelled_ over.

Furthermore, Malfoy wasn’t even trying to protect himself. Harry chalked it up to the rules for his probation…hence why his friends came to his aid.

Since when were the _Slytherins_ so loyal? Or had they always been, in their own subtle way, and Harry just hadn’t cared to notice before? Harry had always figured people just followed Malfoy around because of his Father, and his money. Yet, here they were, risking expulsion because they knew if Malfoy started throwing hexes at Ron, he’d be the _only_ one tossed into Azkaban for it.

Did these people actually _like_ the berk?

How peculiar…

...and why was Ron looking at him strangely?

“Huh?” he said, blinking owlishly. Ron opened his mouth, closed it, his eyes grew stony, and then he opened it again.

“You—thanks for nothing, Harry.” He snapped out eventually, before turning away and storming into the bathroom, Seamus and Dean following closely behind him, shaking their heads.

Harry turned to Neville, completely mystified.

“What’s he on about?” he asked confusedly.

“You didn’t have his back, Harry, that’s what he’s ‘on about’,” Neville informed him with an disappointed expression.

Harry gaped at him from where he sat on the edge of his bed. “We’re not even supposed to be dueling in the first place, Neville!” Harry said defensively.

“Since when has that ever stopped you from standing by your best mate?” Neville said quietly, “You’ve _changed_ , Harry…” the other boy walked away then, scooping his clothes up as he went, and disappeared into the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him.

Harry stared at the closed door, the ache in his chest spreading. He hadn’t meant to upset Ron…why were they treating him like a traitor for not wanting to get involved? And what had Neville meant by saying Harry’s _'changed'?_ Harry reclined back onto his pillows, intending to wait for the bathroom to empty because if Ron was really going to be pissed about Harry not wanting to get into it with the Slytherins, then _screw_ _him_.

They were being stupid. _Really_ fucking stupid…risking trouble for the sake of pride? For Merlin’s sake, they were hardly kids anymore. They’d been through a war…surely there were more important things happening these days than Slytherins being, well, Slytherins.

Speaking of…

“Please stop staring at me,” Harry muttered darkly from the bed.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Potter,” Zabini murmured, sniffing haughtily. They all fled the dormitories as a group and Harry was left alone on the bed, wondering when exactly he became the enemy.

**…**

Ron ignored Harry for most of the day, clearly bitter at Harry’s lack of loyalty, which only succeeded in grating on his nerves by the time the day was through.

Harry dragged himself through Herbology and Defense Against the Dark Arts, skipped lunch, and then put on a false smile for Hagrid’s sake during Care of Magical Creatures. He elected not to take Divination this year, but Astronomy was mandatory.

He sat quietly during supper, wedged between Neville and Hermione, the latter who kept patting his arm comfortingly.

“I, for one, am proud of you for staying out of the conflict, Harry,” she had whispered to him, careful not to draw Ron’s attention. “That shows a lot of maturity on your part.”

Harry smiled at her, appreciative of her efforts to reassure him, but he couldn’t help the unsettled feeling in his gut that told him he was screwing everything up.

**…**

Things escalated that night, as the nine boys all prepared for bed, because Slytherins wouldn’t be Slytherins if they didn’t add fuel to the fire.

Harry had just climbed into bed, settling against his pillows, wanting nothing more for this day to be over, because maybe he could bring himself to apologize to Ron tomorrow (but he shouldn’t _have_ to apologize for wanting to stay out of the fight…how many times had Ron failed to come to his aid over the years, honestly?) in order to set things right again.

Then _Zabini_ had to open his fucking mouth.

“Not going to sneak your potion tonight, Potter?” Harry stilled, his blood running cold as Ron whipped around to stare at Harry, furiously.

“Potion?” he repeated incredulously.

“Oops, Blaise, I think that was supposed to be a secret,” Nott added unhelpfully. Harry felt sick to his stomach and he bit his lip as Ron turned on him.

“Ron—” Harry began, “It’s nothing.”

“You said you’d stop. The healer _told you to stop!”_ He ground out, his face flushing in anger. Harry bristled at the patronizing tone of his friend.

“Ron, I am fine. Leave it alone,” Harry told him firmly, his own face growing warm at something personal becoming much too public for his liking.

“Leave it alone? _Fine!”_ Ron fumed, throwing his hands up in the air, “Do whatever you want. Keep chugging that potion like a bloody _addict_. God, no wonder you're barely functional lately! See if I care, anymore, Harry, really, _see if I care.”_ The red-head then threw himself into his bed, turning his back on Harry and yanking the coverings shut around him.

Harry bit his lip, quietly fuming and humiliated at the same time. His other friends were gawping at him, wide-eyed and concerned, the Slytherins stared at him unblinkingly, looking somewhat surprised. He swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat down with difficulty, and yanked his trunk open, pulling out the Marauder’s Map and sticking it into the waistband of his pajamas. After, he withdrew his invisibility cloak a bit more gingerly, revealing the empty potion vials hidden beneath it to his eyes only, and he flinched guiltily at the sight of them before he slammed the lid shut.

“Harry, where are you _going?”_ Neville asked sadly, and Harry’s eyes flickered back to meet his, and he hated it. Hated the fucking _pity_ he saw reflected there in Neville’s hazel eyes. He shook his head and gave him a smile that was really a wince and headed towards the door.

“I’m going for a walk.” He muttered lowly before disappearing out of the door and under his cloak simultaneously.

The icy fist that had seized his heart during their fight clenched tightly in Harry’s chest as he left the second floor, climbing staircase after staircase in the dimly lit castle, not stopping or planning where his destination was.

**…**

The days following were worse. For the most part the Slytherins kept to themselves, astonishingly not making any more comments about the conflict to his face or the general public, although he doubted they weren’t drawing their own conclusions amongst themselves.

He shrugged it off, feigning indifference like he didn’t care that Ron was still angry with him and pretending it didn’t matter that the rest of their mates were supporting Ron over him. He acted like he didn’t notice Hermione’s sad eyes gazing at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. He faked a smile when anyone talked to him and ignored the sadness that was all-consuming, burying him under its weight.

He didn’t mean to be surly or miserable or whatever words Hermione woils use to describe his behavior. Damn it, he really _wanted_ to be happy! He wanted to go on with his life, forgetting the pain of losing so many people, people that may have survived if Harry had done things differently, or at the very least, died sooner.

He wanted the nightmares to end, to let it all be a thing of his past so he could forge a brighter future.

He just…he didn’t know _how_.

Nothing was working to fix him.

It was becoming increasingly more difficult to feign, pretend, act, and fake it. It was as if he were in a fishbowl, observing and being observed, but everyone outside the bowl passed him on by and went about their lives and business…and Harry…

…Harry was trapped in his own little world, swimming around in circles and wishing he knew how to breathe the air, just so he could join them.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I just got a comment that made me pause and then compelled me to add this last minute end note to explain something about my story here.
> 
> Guys, normally Harry would defend Ron. But I just want to say this. He isn't just sad or feeling out-of-sorts...he's suffering from depression and PTSD, and to me there's a huge difference. 
> 
> Everyone gets sad, it's a perfectly normal emotion, but that does not mean everyone is also suffering from depression or trauma. 
> 
> Harry is going to have moments of being a shitty friend. He's not going to be particularly likable in many ways throughout this story. If you want a heroic Harry, you're not going to find him here, I'm afraid. 
> 
> He's already HAD to be the hero. Now he's suffering from the aftershocks of war and this will be focussing on him trying to pick up the pieces of his life and not knowing how. 
> 
> Depression is an ugly monster. It can consume you, debilitate you, screw up relationships, even. It can make it hard for you to sleep at night or get out of bed in the morning. He isn't just...sad.
> 
> He's trying to discover what he wants and who he wants to be and accept that he can't change the past. It's heavy and frustrating and sometimes you'll probably want to shake some sense into him. It's a lot of character development. It's a journey.
> 
> Hugs and kisses to those who took the time to read and hopefully try to understand this note. 
> 
> xx  
> CJ


	4. Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm blown away by all of the kind comments last chapter. It is encouraging for me to see so many people understanding of Harry's behavior. Thank you all so very much. :)

* * *

* * *

“You wanted to see me, Professor?”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Potter, please have a seat,” McGonagall said briskly. Walking into the office automatically had Harry on edge. In some ways, nothing had changed at all. The oak desk that sat a few steps up on a dais in the center of the room was the same, the ornate, velvet chair behind it unchanged, and many of the relics around the room remained undisturbed. The walls were still lined from top to bottom with leather-bound books and portraits from headmasters of the passed adorned nearly every free space available.

Dumbledore’s portrait and Snape’s hung closest by. The former was asleep, the latter not even in his painting at the moment, and Harry wondered if McGonagall ever just sat around and chatted with her former colleagues. He wondered if she found seeing them every day was beneficial, or if it made the ache of losing them greater.

Harry climbed up the few steps and seated himself before the headmistress, feeling wary. McGonagall’s hands steepled together beneath her chin and she gazed at him with her usual austerity.

“Do you know why I asked you here, Potter?” she questioned him after a transitory pause. Harry shook his head, his nerves fluttering around inside him, itching for him to get out of this office. He glanced over to the large, stone Pensieve in the corner and wondered if Snape’s last memory still lingered in there, swirling with the damning evidence of Harry’s fate. Had McGonagall reviewed any of the memories in the basin? Had she discovered that Harry had once harbored a piece of the soul of a monster?

“No ma’am,” he answered, his voice somewhat hoarse. She pursed her lips.

“It has come to my attention that your marks could stand to improve,” she told him seriously. She shifted through a few pieces of parchment until she found what she was looking for. “From what your professors have informed me, you’re on the brink of failing several classes. You have, and I quote, ‘been demonstrating a lack of ability and/or initiative’ to complete your assignments both in and out of the classroom. We are barely three weeks into term. Mind telling me what is going on with you, Potter?”

Harry’s face flushed slightly but he couldn’t say he was exactly surprised by the news. He knew he wasn't doing too well. He knew he was capable of better. Yet, Harry just didn’t…have the energy or desire to be here, in school anymore. He should’ve never let Hermione drag him back to Hogwarts.

He didn't won't to leave, though, either. 

He didn't know _what_ he wanted, and if he had to leave for whatever reason, Harry didn't know what he would do with himself.

Instead of telling her this, though, he put on his best chastised look. “I’m sorry, Professor. I’ll work on bringing them up immediately,” he told her.

 _“Harry—”_ she began and her voice had softened considerably and Harry grit his teeth in annoyance. She was using _that_ tone. The tone pretty much everyone used with him these days. Like he was fragile and sensitive and needed coddling. He _loathed_ that tone.

Even coming from the usually severe professor, who, had it been a different time and place, had Harry been anyone else, would have given him a tongue lashing before sending him on his way.

No, McGonagall was _not_ supposed to treat him with differently. She wasn’t supposed to use that fucking _tone._

“I will work on my improving my grades, Professor,” he asserted a bit louder, cutting her off before she could continue. She clenched her jaw, returning to her previous disposition, sterner than ever. Good. 

“Very well,” she stated shrewdly. “Please see that you do. You are dismissed, Potter.” Harry nodded once and swept out of the room quickly, not looking back.

**…**

“What did Headmistress McGonagall want? Is everything okay? You're not in any trouble, are you?” Hermione asked him when he returned back to the Eighth-Year common room. Ron was sat in the corner in a chess match against Dean, who, by the looks of it, was losing by a drastic margin.

Harry dropped down in one of the comfortable armchairs beside her and shook his head.

“It's not important.” Couldn’t he just have _one_ conversation with someone that didn’t end up feeling like pity or like an interrogation?

“Harry—”

“’Mione, _please,”_ he beseeched her.

Hermione’s face crumpled and she swallowed heavily, nodded her head, and returned back to the thick text in her lap looking disappointed. He pushed away the guilt and leaned his head back against the cushion. He closed his eyes, his lids feeling unbelievably heavy…

_He woke up an hour later to find Hermione still engrossed in her book, Ron and Dean in their game, and everyone else in the room either talking or doing homework. Harry stood up and stretched, his back popping as his spine elongated and he squeezed Hermione’s shoulder and whispered a quick goodnight as he walked by her and up the stairs, up to his dormitory._

_He slipped into his pajamas in the middle of the empty room, and crawled into bed, settling in on his right side and feeling his breathing evening out, his eyes flickering around the shadows of the dimly lit dormitory and then he heard it; a rattling sound of breathing coming from somewhere close by…behind him._

_He rolled out of bed quickly, blankets sliding a bit with him as he landed on crouched legs beside the bed._

_There was something there, beneath his blankets._

_Something there, with that horrific breathing._

_Something there, that he’d been lying next to, just inches away._

_He felt a shiver roll through him, his hair standing up on his arms, his legs, along the back of his neck and his chest constricted fearfully at the sight of a lump in his bed. He grasped the corner of the blanket closest to him, and gingerly pulled it over to the side, revealing the skeletal form of a small nude body, the flesh red and mottled…and not entirely human._

_His breathing hitched because he’d_ seen _it before, recognized it from the barren King’s Cross station he had woke up in when he 'died' months ago. It was rasping, it’s body quaking, as it struggled for oxygen._

_It’s eyelids sprung open._

_Harry let out a frantic cry and when the gnarled body shifted from it’s fetal position, sitting up in a feral pose with scarlet eyes and a snake-like nose and bald skull. He jumped back, tripping over his sheets, and tumbled to the ground._

_It crawled to him, it’s limbs sallow and boney, it’s fingers spindly and bent like the legs of a spider as it crawled in a crouched position, creeping towards him slowly, moving off the side of the bed to the floor...its demented face unblinking as it stalked Harry like its prey._

_He was paralyzed with fear. Mentally, he screamed for his body to move, but his legs and arms were like lead, too heavy to move away, to run, to hide, and it kept coming towards him._

_Closer._

_Closer._

_CLOSER._

_It pounced._

_Harry shrieked._

He lurched forward, hearing the end of his shout leave his lips; he fell out of the armchair and landed on his knees, looking around frantically. His heart hurt from beating so hard and Harry wiped his hand down his sweaty face, trying to reign in his stuttering breaths because he realized now: it had all been a dream. A nightmare. It was nothing new; a mere variation of a dream he’d had a hundred times before tonight.

The common room was empty, Harry observed breathlessly, and a glance at the clock above the fireplace told him it was a little after one in the morning. The remaining embers from the fire were finally starting to fade out and Harry figured that the last of the students in the room must have just recently headed up to bed.

There was a small throw-blanket beneath his knees that must’ve fallen with him and Harry knew it would have been Hermione’s doing, situating him, allowing him to finally get some sleep, even if it wasn’t in his dormitory.

He wished she wasn’t so thoughtful.

He wished she had woken him, instead.

Harry stood up onto his legs, stiff and unsteady and reached down for his rucksack that was resting against the chair and opened it. Shoving aside the two books, the roll of parchment, and the quill he had stashed in there, he tugged his invisibility cloak out.

Thank Merlin for Hermione’s clever use of those expansive spells.

He left the Eighth-Year wing beneath the security of the cloak, unable to shake the lingering fear, unable to get that grotesque face, that evil, _evil,_ face out of his head.

The Horcrux. 

No, there would be no more sleeping tonight.

He was officially out of his sleeping draught and the only way he’d get more was if he scheduled an appointment with Healer Crawford. He had an awful thought for a fleeting moment, that he could sneak into the hospital wing under his cloak and see if Pomfrey had any on hand…but realistically, he knew she kept a heavy locking spell over all the potions and salves in her office.

Damn…that _was_ a terrible thought. Since when had he gotten so desperate for it, that he would be willing to steal from others? He felt bile rise into his throat, and shook his head, ashamed and disgusted with himself, but it was… _true_. He was itching for it…he-he needed a walk. A nice, long walk to help purge his head of dreadful ideas.

**…**

Of all the things that could’ve been happening in the Astronomy tower at one-thirty in the morning, this was definitely something he had not expected. If there had been a Ravenclaw doing some late-night star-gazing or a couple of horny Hufflepuffs fraternizing beneath the moonlight, he wouldn’t have been as surprised.

Of course not.

…Of course it would be Draco- _bloody_ -Malfoy of all people, in the tower at such an obscure time, because Harry could _never_ seem to be rid of the pureblooded git.

Harry had halted in his tracks when he saw the blonde sitting against the wall, distrust reverberated through his entire body instantly.

_What was he up to?_

It was like his sixth year all over again—all he needed was Ron and Hermione to tell him he was paranoid and obsessed.

But this wasn’t sixth year, anymore. They were older now, matured by a couple more years. Not to mention, Hermione was too busy scrutinizing his every move to have an actual, normal conversation with, and he and Ron weren’t exactly on speaking-terms these last few days.

Plus, he was never _obsessed_ with Malfoy, like they had claimed. He just didn’t trust him…with good reason, too. His throat closed up a bit; if maybe someone had believed his concerns back then, maybe things would’ve ended differently that night.

 _No,_ a little voice told him, _it wouldn’t have. It couldn’t have. Dumbledore knew._

_He had always known._

Dumbeldore knew he was going to die, regardless of Malfoy’s orders. He had intended to, at the right time and place, and by the right person, in order to save Malfoy’s soul. To keep Malfoy's hands clean. 

What was it about Malfoy, that Dumbledore found worth saving?

His stomach churned unhappily and Harry turned to leave.

“Who’s there?”

Harry froze.

Malfoy had sat up stiffly, his cold, grey eyes flitting around the tower sharply, looking for the source of the noise of a presence he couldn’t see.

Then, in an arrogant manner typical of Draco Malfoy, he slowly smirked, and reclined back against the rough stone of the wall. He took a sip of amber-colored liquid from the bottle in his hand.

Harry took a careful step back.

“What’s the point of having that invisibility cloak, Potter, if you can’t even manage to quiet the sound of your obnoxious breathing?” he asked casually. Harry’s hands twitched angrily and he yanked off his cloak finally, to glare properly at the prat.

“Oh, bugger off, Malfoy,” he snapped. Seriously, his _breathing_ was obnoxious? Malfoy was the fucking _embodiment_ of obnoxious.

“No. No, I don’t think I will. I was here first, after all. Are you spying on me again, Potter? Longbottom said you’ve changed, but I disagree. You seem like the same nosey and mindless idiot you’ve always been,” Malfoy continued briskly, as if he were discussing the weather and not insulting Harry.

_Infuriating arsehole._

“And you’re still the same jerk _you’ve_ always been, Malfoy.”

Malfoy sneered. “That’s it? How disappointing. I had thought you’d have something more hurtful up your sleeve for me.”

“Not all of us have things hidden up our sleeves, Malfoy,” Harry shot back before he could stop himself. He clenched his hands into fists.

The Malfoy heir smiled darkly. “There it is.”

Harry paused, slightly taken aback. _What was Malfoy trying to do?_

“What’s your aim here?” Harry growled out. “Trying to remind me that you’re a big, bad Death Eater? Do you think that it’ll make me afraid of you, or something? Because it doesn't."

Malfoy sniffed indifferently. “I’m trying to see if your capable of looking like anything other than a kicked crup puppy.”

“I do _not_ look like a kicked crup—” Harry began, with a scowl but Malfoy only shrugged noncommittedly.

“If you say so, Potty,” he said simply, before taking another sip of his drink.

“Fuck _off_.” Harry spat. A strange sensation arose in him suddenly. He felt furious, yes, and irritated in a way that the other teen had always been able to evoke in him by basically just existing.

That wasn’t it, though.

He didn’t know how to talk to his friends the right way anymore. He didn’t know how to ‘show initiative’ or whatever, in class, and he didn’t know how to sleep without relying on a potion.

He didn’t know how to adjust to this new side of life, without war or threat looming over him.

He didn’t know how to cope with the guilt he felt and the pain of loss.

Oh, but he knew…he knew how to do _this_ with Draco Malfoy.

He knew how to hate him.

For the first time, in a long time, he felt something penetrate into the fog of his mind, making him feel something _different_ , for once.

Malfoy apparently hadn’t noticed Harry coming into his revelation because he just polished off his bottle and let his eyes fall shut completely unperturbed.

“I don’t want any trouble, Potter. I rather like being on this side of Azkaban’s walls,” he told him dryly.

Harry snorted. “So the best way to avoid trouble is to hurl insults at me?” he questioned. He almost laughed.

Almost.

“You’re not going to hex me,” Malfoy told him.

“You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

Malfoy’s eyes opened up again, this time meeting his eyes straight-on and Harry found himself unable to look away.

“You didn’t try to hex me a few days ago when Weasel and I got into it. Why start now?”

“I don’t want to be kicked out,” Harry stated, arms crossing over his torso defensively as he stared down at Malfoy’s nonchalant form.

“Neither do I.”

“So this is what we do now?” Harry asked wryly. “We insult each other but never raise our wands?”

“I still find it oddly satisfying, don’t you, crup?”

Harry bit his lip, incapable of denying Malfoy’s words. Eventually he did turn and walk away, but not before flipping Malfoy two fingers dismissively. As far as interactions with the other boy went, their exchange in the tower was mild. Tame, really. Nevertheless, Harry still felt…

…Alive.

He felt _alive_.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a little Drarry interaction. It's not much, but at least Harry is actually acknowledging someone. Until next time!  
> xx


	5. Tired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to give the biggest THANK YOU to CallisaRose, for being awesome and proof-reading this chapter for me. xx
> 
> Honestly, this one is kind of a transitional chapter, pretty much here to get us ready for some more Drarry interaction next time. Hopefully it isn't too bland. :)

* * *

 

_Thirty-four_ hours _._

He hadn’t slept in nearly _thirty-four_ hours, Harry realized as he walked into Healer Crawford’s waiting room on Thursday at four o’clock. He barely remembered what he’d done all day. Sure, he went to class, but Harry was pretty certain he didn’t show ‘initiative’ like his professors were hoping for, the ‘initiative’ that he promised McGonagall he would show.

He’d stolen an unenthusiastic peek at himself in the bathroom mirror this morning after his shower and noted his diminishing appearance. His hair was limp and laying flatter (which, he supposed wasn’t necessarily a bad thing that his hair wasn’t so haphazard, but it didn’t look quite like him) and he’d lost some weight, making him look a bit scrawnier than usual. The dark circles under his eyes were so prominent that he wondered if he ever became an _anigmagus_ if he’d end up being a racoon.

He was never one to obsess over his appearance but even he had to admit he wasn’t looking well.

He looked…ill.

“Mr. Potter?” Crawford’s secretary, Damien, called out to him. Harry looked up to the other man, who was only a few years older than himself, with light brown hair and blue eyes. “Healer Crawford will see you now.”

Harry grinned at him tiredly. _About time._

“Thanks, Damien,” he told him as he passed by the receptionist desk. He slipped through the door that led into the office and nodded at Crawford as she bid him a genial _hello._

“How are you doing today, Harry?” she asked him as he sat down on the sofa and hugged one knee to his chest. She immediately began to dissect him—his body language, his tone, his appearance, every rise and fall of his chest that moved uneasily under her scrutiny.

Her eyes were fast, zooming up and down him like she was following the flight pattern of a snitch and when he told her he was _fine_ she smiled at him cordially; however, he knew she didn’t believe him because she began to scratch on her pad of parchment in the next breath.

He withheld the sigh of agitation that wanted to escape his lips. He withheld the roll of his eyes and the grit of his teeth, because he needed something from her and wasn’t going to get what he needed if he told her to shove off like he desperately wanted to.

In all fairness, it wasn’t her fault; Harry knew she was trying to help. He knew she meant well. It didn’t stop him though, from wishing he could take that scrap of paper that had his prescription on it, that little piece of parchment that had his salvation penned in Crawford’s untidy scrawl, offering him his only salvation, and run the fuck away from here.

“I know we decided to schedule our appointments for every third Thursday of the month, Harry, but are you certain that’s for the best?” she asked him after a brief moment and Harry nodded hurriedly.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m trying to finish my education and I think having weekly appointments would make it hard to stay on top of schoolwork,” he rushed, his fingers twitching as he eyed the prescription pad on her lap. When he noticed her following his gaze, he winced and straightened himself up, trying to look attentive and praying that she didn’t also see the hungry look on his face.

She couldn’t know how much he relied on the _Dreamless Sleep._ There was no way for her to know if he’d already finished his supply or that sometimes he’d take two doses, just in case. There was no way for her to realize how deep his desire was for it, that he _itched_ for it. She couldn’t know anything that Harry didn’t tell her, so he would lie. He would lie through his teeth.

He glanced at the clock.

Fifty-six minutes to go.

**…**

“Bloody nosey _hag_. Bloody _fucking_ …” Harry grumbled to himself for the hundredth time since he’d returned to Hogwarts. He held the box of tiny vials in his hands as he sat on the edge of his bed his feet dangling off the edge.

He counted them again.

And again.

And again.

_Eight._

Crawford only prescribed him eight vials of Dreamless Sleep…that was four fewer than last time, and half the dosage she had originally given him when he first started coming to therapy.

This was…

This was going to fucking ruin him.

He pulled out one vial and stared at it wistfully.

He uncorked it and downed it, shoved the box angrily into his trunk, and climbed into his bed, settling in beneath his blankets. For the first time in thirty-six hours, Harry finally let the sleep overtake him.

**…**

“...No, you idiot, it’s _twelve_ drops of moondew. It is only fifteen drops if you’re brewing _the Draught of Living Death_. Don’t you remember this from Sixth Year?” Draco huffed exasperatedly.

“No, I don’t remember—who remembers a potion we made two bloody years ago?” Blaise sputtered indignantly. He whipped his head to the side to look at Pansy as they climbed up the stairs to their dormitory behind Draco.

“Only Draco remembers those things,” Pansy soothed, “and maybe know-it-all Granger,” she added with a sneer.

“Bugger off you two,” Draco muttered as he finished reading the parchment that had Blaise’s essay written on it in black ink. “I’m doing you both a favor by reading over this swill you’re trying to pass off as your potions-theory essays.”

“And we appreciate you doing so, darling,” Pansy cooed reassuringly. The three of them walked into the dorm room to find only Potter on his bed, sound asleep.

It had become such a recurring sight that Draco would’ve been genuinely surprised if Potter _wasn’t_ sleeping in bed.

“This color scheme is dreadful. How can you two stand it?” Pansy continued after a moment, visibly distraught over the clashing hues. Blaise shrugged and plopped down on Draco’s bed and Pansy shimmied down to lay beside him.

“We try not to dwell on it too much…I was thinking about charming the Gryffindors’ bedding to green permanently when they aren’t looking, but Draco, here, won’t let me.” Not looking up from the essay he was proofreading, Draco scoffed.

“I don’t need the headache I get whenever one of them starts complaining. Leave it alone.” He informed them sharply.

Blaise just grunted in acknowledgement and reached for his bag to pull out a bottle of Italian wine.

“Compliments of my mother,” he told them. Draco threw the parchment down and snatched it from his friend.

“I love your mother,” Draco murmured, examining the bottle that clearly had been charmed to stay cool.

“Famous last words,” Blaise mumbled, shaking his head. He bent his legs so that he was sitting up, and Draco sat down across from him and Pansy.

“What number husband is this new one?” Pansy asked.

“Seven or eight…I forget,” he said, shrugging noncommittally.

“At least take your shoes off,” Draco grumbled, “I don’t see why you two find it necessary to ruin _my_ bed.”

Blaise grinned and kicked off his shoes obediently, “I thought you’d be happy to _have_ someone in your bed, at least,” he teased.

“Seriously? How long has it been since you’ve gotten some, Draco?” Pansy said, her brown eyes rounded in surprise as she stared back and forth between them.

Draco gave Blaise a furious glare and shoved the bottle back at him roughly so that the dark-skinned boy could pop the cork.

“None of your business, Parkinson,” he snapped, glancing over to Potter’s bed to see if he was still sleeping. He wasn’t about to discuss his personal-life in front of the Boy-Who-Lived of all people, unconscious or not. “I can’t believe your mother sends you alcohol,” Draco continued as he leaned back against the bedpost and stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing at the ankles.

Blaise grinned a white show of teeth and took a sip of wine right out of the bottle.

“Classy,” Pansy muttered with a sigh but she too, took a sip when the bottle was passed to her. “Oh this must’ve cost a small fortune.”

“I think she just likes to overcompensate for leaving me in the manor by myself every summer,” Blaise said. His tone remained nonchalant but Draco could see his shoulders tense slightly.

Blaise’s mother had always been absent while Blaise was growing up. More often than not, Adela Zabini would leave her only child in the care of their house-elves when her ever-changing suitors and husbands would whisk her away to exotic lands. Most times, said suitors never returned after some tragic accident.

His turn to sip.

It was quite good. He stole a second before passing.

“Mother wouldn’t _dream_ of sending me alcohol while I’m at school. Or at all, for that matter. Remember how hard she use to try to keep us from sneaking champagne at parties?” Draco asked lightly after a brief pause.

Pansy smirked, “My mother, too. Old bint…your father, at least, use to sneak us a taste—” She stopped short, looking strained and guilty.

Draco didn’t falter.

“He did.” He acknowledged. Another sip. Slightly bitter.

It had been a long time ago. Back when they still had annual Yuletide balls at Malfoy manor and large social gatherings every other season; back when Draco was young and carefree, when all that mattered in his world was getting his parents’ attention and the latest model of broomstick.

Before the Dark Lord’s return.

Before their lives had been upturned and no one was safe.

His grey eyes flitted back to the scarlet bed just one bed away, to the boy his age that saved them all.

To Saint- _Fucking_ -Potter, who was so infuriatingly selfless, so doped-up on adrenaline from being the hero all the time that he finally looked like he had crashed and burned…and Draco didn’t know what to make of it. He felt a little smug, maybe, but also a little unnerved. Potter wasn’t supposed to—

“I can literally _hear_ what’s on your mind, Draco,” Blaise sniggered, earning a hard kick from the blonde’s sock-clad foot.

Draco scowled.

“Do you want me to tell you what to fix on your essay on _Wiggenweld_ , or not?”

Blaise sighed theatrically. “Fine, fine. Go on, then.”

Draco sniffed scornfully and lifted the parchment beside him. “There’s the moondew for one. Twelve drops, as I’ve said. Also, you’re wrong about its origin; the prince did not create the potion himself. He bought it from a powerful Potions Master they called _Gavin, the Belligerent_. The prince then put the antidote on his lips and, well, you know the rest.”

Pansy sighed dreamily, “’He kissed his princess, administering the remedy to the Hag Leticia Somnolens’s _Draught of Living Death,_ waking her at last…’ That was always one of my favorite stories growing up. It’s so romantic!”

Blaise and Draco both rolled their eyes. “It would’ve been more ‘ _romantic’_ if the berk actually invented and brewed the potion himself. He put in absolutely none of the work and gets all of the glory _and_ the princess,” Draco stated disdainfully.

“Can we please discuss our childhood bedtime stories later? We have potions first thing in the morning; I need to get this essay to at least an ‘E’.” Blaise interjected.

“The _Wiggenweld_ potion’s colors change accordingly—red, orange, yellow, green, turquoise, indigo, pink, red, yellow, purple, red, orange, yellow, orange, turquoise, pink, and finally, green.”

Blaise looked aghast. “What did I write?’

“Hmm, you wrote: red, orange, yellow, green, turquoise, indigo, pink, red, yellow, purple, orange, red, yellow, orange, turquoise, pink, green.”

“…that’s the same exact thing, Draco.”

“No it is not,” Draco said, bristling, “The eleventh and twelfth colors should be switched. At that stage, if the potion were to change orange first, _before_ red, it’d mean you either added too much flobberworm mucus or added too few of the lionfish spines.”

Blaise glowered at him, “Oh, give me that!” he grumbled, seizing the parchment out of the Malfoy heir’s hands. His eyes moved rapidly as he read through his mistakes. “…you are a smug bastard, Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

Draco smirked at him haughtily before taking another sip of the expensive Italian-made wine.

**…**

“Harry! Oh, Harry, do wake _up!”_ Hermione groaned in frustration, her voice sounded loud in his ear. Harry’s eyes fluttered open with some effort, having sealed themselves shut with sleep. He blinked the bleariness out of them.

“Whuzzat?” Harry mumbled sleepily as he took in Hermione’s blurry face and then smiled gratefully when she slipped his glasses onto his nose for him. However, her disproving glare was enough to make him want to go back to sleep.

“Harry! I swear, it’s easier to wake the _dead_ than it is to wake you, sometimes,” She began irritably. “Did Healer Crawford prescribe you more _Dreamless Sleep_? How many vials? You need to be careful—”

“Hermione it’s too early for you to start in with this. _Please?”_ Harry mumbled. His head felt heavy, his body stiff, his breath stale…how long had he slept?

“Early? It is nearly lunch time! You’ve missed Potions _and_ Transfiguration…you’re going to be in so much trouble, Harry.”

Shit.

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face tiredly, stifling a groan.

“I told Ron to wake you after you never showed for breakfast but—”

“He’s mad at me. Yes. I know. It’s fine…go on ahead to lunch, ‘Mione, I’ll get ready and meet you in time for Charms, all right?” Hermione looked reluctant. She reached a hand out to squeeze his forearm as she regarded him.

“I’ll grab you a sandwich for you to eat on your way there, okay?” He smiled at her and lifted her hand from his arm to kiss the back of it.

“You’re the best. Thanks, Hermione.” She nodded her head, eyes shining a little bit at his words, and Harry noted it with a sinking feeling in his gut. A simple kind gesture on his part was enough to make her want to cry? Merlin, he really was a lousy friend. She sniffed quietly.

“Harry, I know it’s none of my business…but maybe…maybe try talking to Ron. He loves you. We both do…but you know how he is sometimes. He hates to make the first move.” Harry inclined his head to the side in acknowledgement.

“I’ll…I’ll try to pull him aside and talk to him, yeah?” She patted his arm once in silent gratitude before sweeping out of the boys’ dormitories, making her way to lunch.

Harry sat up and stretched, his body cracking and popping all the while. He thought for a moment of the box of potions in his trunk.

He would have to ration the remaining seven…one entire month, with only seven nights of reprieve...

**...**

Eight days later, Harry found his feet leading him up several flights of stairs, letting Hogwarts take him wherever its moving staircases wanted.

Every single night this past week had been the same; he would get ready for bed and try to go to sleep, but his brain wouldn’t shut off. He’d close his eyes and wait for sleep to reach him, if not by his own willpower, then at least by sheer exhaustion.

He’d barter every night, long into the early morning. It was always the same, weighing the pros and cons in his mind, constantly trying to negotiate with himself.

_Just take one._

_Don’t, I have to ration them._

_Just this once. I’m so tired_.

_Six left._

_Just one more. I still have six._

_Six isn’t enough._

_Just do it._

_Five left._

_No more tonight. I have to be good. I don’t need it._

_If I take one tonight, I’ll get enough rest and I’ll be able to go another day without needing to sleep._

_Say no. Say no._

_Don’t—_

_Do it._

_Four left._

_Just one more._

_Three left._

_STOP. They’re almost gone!_

_One more. That’s it. Then I can stop._

_No I can’t._

_I can stop at any time!_

_I’m addicted._

_No I’m not._

_I’m just tired…_

_Two left._

_Why did I do this. Why am I so weak?_

_But I need it. I just want to sleep._

_There’s no crime in wanting to sleep, God damn it!_

_Maybe Crawford will give me a couple more. She has to understand how awful this is._

_She won’t._

_One Left._

_STOP._

_He hated himself._

_STOP._

Harry wanted to scream. He wanted to lash out with all his strength and all his magic, and destroy the world around him because if he was going to suffer then why should he suffer alone?

But that was an immature thought. Juvenile. He didn’t really want people to suffer with him…he just wanted to know how they did… _this._

He wanted to know how they smiled and laughed and went about their business as if people hadn’t died in this very school mere months ago. He wanted to know how they were able to sleep at night without seeing glowing red eyes or corpses haunting their dreams.

Harry stopped at the entrance to the astronomy tower and bit his lip curiously because there was a faint light emitting from the crack underneath the door like it had just over a week before.

_Malfoy?_

He looked at the small tube in his hand, swirling with the last of the navy blue liquid that he was both desperate and horrified to consume. Taking a deep breath, he shoved it deep into his jeans pocket and pushed the door open.

Grey eyes met his unblinkingly.

 

* * *

 


End file.
